


Without You, I Am Incomplete

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://www.thegameison_sh.livejournal.com">thegameison_sh</a>’s Cycle 3, Round 2 challenge. Prompt: Make one small change to the canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You, I Am Incomplete

A small part of you, hidden in the deepest, darkest corner of your mind from which your nightmares come (every night now, without respite), wishes you had been able to keep your gun. Most of the rest of you is horrified at the thought of shooting yourself (so messy, so much blood on the carpet⎯it wouldn’t soak into the fibres like it would in the Afghan sand), and that part of you reminds you in the middle of the night when you’re sweating from remembered heat and pain ( _so much pain_ ) that your painkillers would do the job just fine. You turn the bottle over and over in your fingers but always set it back on the counter, unopened, before limping back to bed.

An even smaller part of you whispers _hang on it will get better_. For some reason, that is the voice you strain to hear, but hear it you do and you heed it. It gets harder to believe it with each passing day, but you listen to it and force yourself to pretend to trust it.

You never stop feeling the phantom weight of your gun ( _it should be there, where is it?_ ) when you limp around London. When Stamford calls your name, your right hand twitches in surprise, reaching for a gun that will never be there.

*

You hide your uneasiness well from the man in the too-neat suit. Your stance shifts slightly, accommodating the weight of a phantom gun that you miss more now than you did during those nights in your flat when you were first discharged. But your hands are steady for the first time in months, and the man notices. _If this is a battlefield and I am a soldier, I need my gun_ , you think as the man walks away, twirling his umbrella. You aren’t a clairvoyant like Sherlock or this strange man, but even you can see this strange man wants Sherlock protected, whether from himself or his enemies.

 _Dammit,_ you think as you call out, “Wait.”

The man turns.

“I need something if you want me to do this for you. No money, just…”

The man nods briskly, cutting you off. “Expect it soon.”

You hadn’t even said what you needed, but somehow, you know he knows.

*

There is no gun waiting for you when you get back to Baker Street, and you are a little surprised at that. The man seemed so efficient.

*

You nearly trip over the package, wrapped in plain brown paper with your name printed in stark black capitals on the top, sitting innocuously on the stoop. You snatch it up and feel the reassuring weight of a gun and smile a feral grin as you hail a cab to follow Sherlock, barking directions even as you clench your fingers so tightly around the package that your knuckles turn white.

You choose the wrong building, but that doesn’t matter because the gun is in your hand now (and you feel whole, _complete_ for the first time in months) and you fire a shot without blinking. You stay just long enough to make sure the threat is neutralised before tucking the gun into your waistband (God, does it feel good to feel the weight of a gun on your body again) and leaving.

Sherlock gives you a small smile and you grow warm at his praise. There are not many civilians you would kill for (you struggled for years with the doctor and soldier dichotomy and only now do you feel it start to resolve itself) and this inexplicable man, it seems, is one of them.

When the suited man is revealed as Sherlock’s brother, you understand his concern. You meet Mycroft’s eyes and nod slightly, reaffirming the promise your actions just made to do whatever is necessary to protect this man you barely know.

You brush your fingers against the gun as you both leave the scene. Sherlock notices, catches your eye, and smiles. You grin back, feeling more like _yourself_ than you have since Afghanistan.

*

That night, as you tuck your gun under your new pillow and lie down, you think:

 _Here is a person who understands my innate dichotomy and accepts it like the soldiers I left behind._

 _Here is a civilian to whom I can swear In Arduis Fidelis and mean it._

 _Here is a man I think I can love._

Your lips curl in a smile as you drop into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
